


Nearer To Setting

by brinnanza



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 13:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4523808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Things you said when you were scared. Or: Things you didn't say.</i> </p>
<p>Time is ticking down, one red second at a time, and Sheppard is no closer to finding the correct detonator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nearer To Setting

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by number 18 [here](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/111919930176/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a). Title is from the poem Gather Ye Rosebuds. Thanks to Aadarshinah for the beta read.

Time is ticking down, one red second at a time, and Sheppard is no closer to finding the correct detonator. McKay knows what to look for; if he could only see into the device, he could do it himself, or at least stop the timer and give them time to get the hell out of there, but the device is attached to the cuffs holding his hands above his head and they’ll only release when the bomb is deactivated. 

“Damn it,” says Sheppard, standing on his toes and peering into the small metal device. He pushes a bundle of wires aside and tries to follow a path from what he thinks is the right detonator to the blasting cap. “Why couldn’t this be like the movies? Cut the blue wire and done.”

“What, space vampires and hostile natives aren’t cliche enough for you?” McKay snaps, his voice high and breathy with panic. He pulls futilely at the cuffs again, but they refuse to give.

“I’m just saying.” Sheppard pauses. “What if I just pull ‘em all at the same time? I’d get the real detonator too.”

“Except it’s physically impossible to pull every wire at exactly the same time so it would go off and kill us.”

“You never like my ideas,” Sheppard pouts. 

And McKay knows what he’s doing, knows this sort of stupid bickering is supposed to distract him from the terror of his inevitable demise, but it’s sort of working, so he plays along. “That’s because your ideas are frequently suicidal.”

“They are not!”

“You flew a bomb into a hive ship!”

“That was one time. Besides, I got pulled out at the last minute.”

“There was no way to know that would happen. And there was the time you were going to crash a jumper into the main tower without inertial dampeners.”

“But I didn’t have to!”

“Then you flew a _different_ bomb onto a _different_ hive ship.”

“I got out of that too!”

“The _point_ is,” McKay says, his voice much closer to his usual register now, “your ideas are terrible.”

Sheppard aims a scowl down at him, his fingers still in the box, following wires by touch. “Y’know, I’m beginning to reconsider saving your life here.”

“No you’re not. There’s not enough time to escape the blast radius.” And now McKay can’t breathe or maybe he’s breathing too fast but either way, there’s a tight band of anxiety around his chest and there isn’t enough _time_ . They’re down to less than a minute, and McKay is going to die in some crappy barn on some crappy planet because some idiots decided the ATA gene was witchcraft capable of performing miracles far outside of flyboy training, even if the flyboy in question did maybe qualify for Mensa once.

McKay forcibly drags his attention back before it spins off into gibbering panic, wasting what is sure to be the last -- _Jesus_ \-- 45 seconds of his life.

He takes a deep breath, reaching for something like calm. “Sheppard,” he says. “John -- look, there’s something --”

“No,” interrupts Sheppard. “Later. Tell me later, when we get out of here.”

McKay blows out a frustrated breath. “There isn’t going to be a later, okay? We’re gonna die here, and I have to tell you before I _can’t_ anymore.”

“Rodney,” Sheppard says desperately. “Please.” He rocks back onto his heels so he can look at McKay’s face, his eyebrows knit with tension.

But McKay has to get it out because if this is all the time they’ve got left, scant seconds too few to work miracles, then it doesn’t matter about fraternization or DADT or even whether it’s reciprocated, even though he knows it is, is has to be.

The words get stuck in his throat and all that comes out is a frustrated noise. They are _going to die_ and he still can’t tell him, even though there’s about a zero percent chance of them living long enough for anything like consequences. So instead he locks eyes with Sheppard, wide panicked blue meeting suddenly determined hazel, and hopes that’s enough.

“Rodney,” Sheppard says, his voice a fierce growl, “I know.” He leans forward, resting his forehead against McKay’s. “I already know.”

Then he yanks a wire out of the bomb.

McKay’s eyes slam shut and he tenses for the blast that’s sure to come, but the devices timer just beeps once and then the cuffs above his head open.

He pitches forward, unbalanced suddenly, and Sheppard catches him and lowers him to the ground. “Easy, I’ve got you,” Sheppard soothes, and McKay realizes he’s shaking.

They sit on the dusty floor of the barn for a long time, Sheppard’s arms around McKay and McKay’s face pressed to Sheppard’s shoulder. McKay tries to get his breathing back under control and still the tremors in his hands and his shoulders, but he just keeps muttering, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” because that absolutely should not have worked. They should be _dead right now_ but somehow he’s still breathing, huge hiccuping breaths that somehow don’t have enough oxygen in them. It’s _impossible_ and _absurd_ and he is _never going to hear the end of it from Sheppard._

“Rodney,” Sheppard says eventually, his voice gentle, “C’mon buddy, we gotta go.” McKay lets Sheppard pull him to his feet.

He doesn’t let go of Sheppard’s hand though. “Sheppard, I --”

Before he can finish the sentence, Sheppard’s mouth is on his, one arm wrapped around his waist, their bodies flush against each other. Sheppard kisses McKay like he’s drowning, like McKay’s mouth is the only dry land for miles, like the first shaky step on solid ground after a lifetime spent at sea.

When they part long moments later, their hands are still linked. “Come on,” says Sheppard. “Let’s get out of here.” His voice is low and thick, rough in a way that steals away a breath McKay doesn’t have to spare.

Dumbly, he follows Sheppard out of the barn.


End file.
